i did, too. and now i am impossibly mute.
lovely.
10.29.2008
9.25.2008
triple threat
so today i engaged in email exchanges with 3 people who have the same name in 3 different email strands. all tied into similar subjects.
it got a little hairy for a while.
nothing sketchy, bumpy, or oozy.
but definitely hairy.
it got a little hairy for a while.
nothing sketchy, bumpy, or oozy.
but definitely hairy.
9.23.2008
you are what you love
her stomach hurt when she noticed the lightening bug. it blinked through the last yellow flower of summer. at first, she didn't know if it was anger or bobbie's dairy dip. both tended to make her want to hold her gut and rock in place. and sometimes she simply did.
but not on this greenway.
not near these train tracks.
and not with him, yet.
"really. what would you have done if she had told you how she was doing when you asked? i just don't get why people do that. it makes no sense," he said, five steps ahead.
"what?" she had quit listening when she saw the lightening bug glow.
she looked at his shoulders; they were tight and high. his hands were in the pockets of his grey pants. and he was still walking away toward the light post. that was as far as he would go tonight.
"huh? oh. i would have listened." she returned to the moment.
"really? that's stupid. why do people walk by and ask, 'how ya doin?' no one really cares."
"i would have listened," she replied and almost sat down. indian-style was best. she could always get her arms wrapped more tightly around her waist when she rocked like that. "people are interesting," she said to no one but herself.
she wanted to be held in his palm like a kid does a lightening bug.
she wanted to go back and get the burger instead of a hot dog.
she wanted to be anything but stupid in this last summer space.
instead, she pulled the yellow flower from its stalk, watched him slap the light post to return, and let go of everything she loved about summer.
but not on this greenway.
not near these train tracks.
and not with him, yet.
"really. what would you have done if she had told you how she was doing when you asked? i just don't get why people do that. it makes no sense," he said, five steps ahead.
"what?" she had quit listening when she saw the lightening bug glow.
she looked at his shoulders; they were tight and high. his hands were in the pockets of his grey pants. and he was still walking away toward the light post. that was as far as he would go tonight.
"huh? oh. i would have listened." she returned to the moment.
"really? that's stupid. why do people walk by and ask, 'how ya doin?' no one really cares."
"i would have listened," she replied and almost sat down. indian-style was best. she could always get her arms wrapped more tightly around her waist when she rocked like that. "people are interesting," she said to no one but herself.
she wanted to be held in his palm like a kid does a lightening bug.
she wanted to go back and get the burger instead of a hot dog.
she wanted to be anything but stupid in this last summer space.
instead, she pulled the yellow flower from its stalk, watched him slap the light post to return, and let go of everything she loved about summer.
9.14.2008
all i ever need to know
since middle school, i have loved robert fulghum. i am not into the inspirational, but i am into the personal essay. and he writes them well. in his book "maybe (maybe not)", he ends an essay with this question:
"how will you know if someone really loves you if they only meet your expectations and not your needs?"
i like this.
it asks me to consider my needs.
i can easily answer questions of expectation.
all of us can. turn on a television. ask a neighbor.
we all know what to expect of love.
but, what do we really need?
"how will you know if someone really loves you if they only meet your expectations and not your needs?"
i like this.
it asks me to consider my needs.
i can easily answer questions of expectation.
all of us can. turn on a television. ask a neighbor.
we all know what to expect of love.
but, what do we really need?
curtains!
i'm heading back to the classroom in october. partly b/c i'm just sick in the head and partly because i have an unwavering faith in the power of human connection.
we can save ourselves. i have been both the life vest and the swell; i have created as much as i have destroyed, and choice is the determining factor. i again choose to be part of the solution. it's the only way i know how to be good to myself.
a kid i taught sent me this poem. most people read it and want to claw their eyes out. they only see the pain.
i see the names of people who lived exceptionally, yet hopelessly. and the understanding that being good to ourselves is the first choice to be made each morning.
Trouble
by Matthew Dickman
from the New Yorker: August 11, 2008
Marilyn Monroe took all her sleeping pills
to bed when she was thirty-six, and Marlon Brando’s daughter
hung in the Tahitian bedroom
of her mother’s house,
while Stanley Adams shot himself in the head. Sometimes
you can look at the clouds or the trees
and they look nothing like clouds or trees or the sky or the ground.
The performance artist Kathy Change
set herself on fire while Bing Crosby’s sons shot themselves
out of the music industry forever.
I sometimes wonder about the inner lives of polar bears. The French
philosopher Gilles Deleuze jumped
from an apartment window into the world
and then out of it. Peg Entwistle, an actress with no lead
roles, leaped off the “H” in the HOLLYWOOD sign
when everything looked black and white
and David O. Selznick was king, circa 1932. Ernest Hemingway
put a shotgun to his head in Ketchum, Idaho
while his granddaughter, a model and actress, climbed the family tree
and overdosed on phenobarbital. My brother opened
thirteen fentanyl patches and stuck them on his body
until it wasn’t his body anymore. I like
the way geese sound above the river. I like
the little soaps you find in hotel bathrooms because they’re beautiful.
Sarah Kane hanged herself, Harold Pinter
brought her roses when she was still alive,
and Louis Lingg, the German anarchist, lit a cap of dynamite
in his own mouth
though it took six hours for him
to die, 1887. Ludwig II of Bavaria drowned
and so did Hart Crane, John Berryman, and Virginia Woolf. If you are
travelling, you should always bring a book to read, especially
on a train. Andrew Martinez, the nude activist, died
in prison, naked, a bag
around his head, while in 1815 the Polish aristocrat and writer
Jan Potocki shot himself with a silver bullet.
Sara Teasdale swallowed a bottle of blues
after drawing a hot bath,
in which dozens of Roman senators opened their veins beneath the water.
Larry Walters became famous
for flying in a Sears patio chair and forty-five helium-filled
weather balloons. He reached an altitude of 16,000 feet
and then he landed. He was a man who flew.
He shot himself in the heart. In the morning I get out of bed, I brush
my teeth, I wash my face, I get dressed in the clothes I like best.
I want to be good to myself.
we can save ourselves. i have been both the life vest and the swell; i have created as much as i have destroyed, and choice is the determining factor. i again choose to be part of the solution. it's the only way i know how to be good to myself.
a kid i taught sent me this poem. most people read it and want to claw their eyes out. they only see the pain.
i see the names of people who lived exceptionally, yet hopelessly. and the understanding that being good to ourselves is the first choice to be made each morning.
Trouble
by Matthew Dickman
from the New Yorker: August 11, 2008
Marilyn Monroe took all her sleeping pills
to bed when she was thirty-six, and Marlon Brando’s daughter
hung in the Tahitian bedroom
of her mother’s house,
while Stanley Adams shot himself in the head. Sometimes
you can look at the clouds or the trees
and they look nothing like clouds or trees or the sky or the ground.
The performance artist Kathy Change
set herself on fire while Bing Crosby’s sons shot themselves
out of the music industry forever.
I sometimes wonder about the inner lives of polar bears. The French
philosopher Gilles Deleuze jumped
from an apartment window into the world
and then out of it. Peg Entwistle, an actress with no lead
roles, leaped off the “H” in the HOLLYWOOD sign
when everything looked black and white
and David O. Selznick was king, circa 1932. Ernest Hemingway
put a shotgun to his head in Ketchum, Idaho
while his granddaughter, a model and actress, climbed the family tree
and overdosed on phenobarbital. My brother opened
thirteen fentanyl patches and stuck them on his body
until it wasn’t his body anymore. I like
the way geese sound above the river. I like
the little soaps you find in hotel bathrooms because they’re beautiful.
Sarah Kane hanged herself, Harold Pinter
brought her roses when she was still alive,
and Louis Lingg, the German anarchist, lit a cap of dynamite
in his own mouth
though it took six hours for him
to die, 1887. Ludwig II of Bavaria drowned
and so did Hart Crane, John Berryman, and Virginia Woolf. If you are
travelling, you should always bring a book to read, especially
on a train. Andrew Martinez, the nude activist, died
in prison, naked, a bag
around his head, while in 1815 the Polish aristocrat and writer
Jan Potocki shot himself with a silver bullet.
Sara Teasdale swallowed a bottle of blues
after drawing a hot bath,
in which dozens of Roman senators opened their veins beneath the water.
Larry Walters became famous
for flying in a Sears patio chair and forty-five helium-filled
weather balloons. He reached an altitude of 16,000 feet
and then he landed. He was a man who flew.
He shot himself in the heart. In the morning I get out of bed, I brush
my teeth, I wash my face, I get dressed in the clothes I like best.
I want to be good to myself.
8.27.2008
paranoid android
at a fall astronomy lecture, i took some notes that i found in a drawer i throw old journals in. all my life on little scraps of paper in 2 drawers.
shit.
that day i learned about the life-span of stars, considered the origin of the universe, and understood the logistics of sending information through space. i had the normal feelings of insignificance. and at the same time, felt connected.
stars have a life span.
they are born, live, and die.
just like us.
the sun we revolve around is half way through its life cycle. the damn thing will be dead in a few billion years. and so will we.
what struck me next is that NASA continually sends messages to places light years away. some of the smartest people on the planet are trying to connect with little scraps of cosmic communication that will NEVER get to anyone while humans are on earth. we will all be so dead that sending it doesn't matter.
in those drawers, i also found the scraps of my last marriage counseling session. the therapist made us write down 10 things we loved about each other. our in-class assignment was touch the other person and read the list of 10.
i was so many light years away from him that i literally almost laughed when he read his to me. that was the last time i said i love you, and i said it from an out-of-body, outer space place.
tangled in the astronomy notes, i found his list of 10. like the brightest minds in science, he had written a hopeless message. and we were so dead that the sending has never mattered.
shit.
that day i learned about the life-span of stars, considered the origin of the universe, and understood the logistics of sending information through space. i had the normal feelings of insignificance. and at the same time, felt connected.
stars have a life span.
they are born, live, and die.
just like us.
the sun we revolve around is half way through its life cycle. the damn thing will be dead in a few billion years. and so will we.
what struck me next is that NASA continually sends messages to places light years away. some of the smartest people on the planet are trying to connect with little scraps of cosmic communication that will NEVER get to anyone while humans are on earth. we will all be so dead that sending it doesn't matter.
in those drawers, i also found the scraps of my last marriage counseling session. the therapist made us write down 10 things we loved about each other. our in-class assignment was touch the other person and read the list of 10.
i was so many light years away from him that i literally almost laughed when he read his to me. that was the last time i said i love you, and i said it from an out-of-body, outer space place.
tangled in the astronomy notes, i found his list of 10. like the brightest minds in science, he had written a hopeless message. and we were so dead that the sending has never mattered.
8.20.2008
sharon rose
my great-grandfather spent the 1930's collecting sharon rose depression glass. it's baby pink: rose patterned. duh.
when he would buy washing detergent or gasoline in the 30's, the reward for choosing brand "a" was this glassware.
i've spent my adult life collecting it.
even though i think it's the ugliest shit out there.
for years, grandpa wynn's glassware sat in boxes in my attic.
i was waiting for the right cabinet, the right room, the right moment.
i was waiting for some place in my home to be enough.
when i moved last summer, the moment came: in the form of necessity.
those were the only dishes i had that would fit into the make-shift cabinets i had constructed from bookshelves.
for a while i was worried that i would break one of them.
finally did.
it wouldn't glue back together, just a hot fucking mess.
and i had to let it go.
i look at some people in my life the way that i look at sharon rose. i have put them in boxes, wrapped them in a bubble-wrap fear, and stuck them in an attic. and i still can't seem to eat off the plate. i look at it, imagine the perfect chicken salad sandwich, but can't use what people long gone have given to me.
when he would buy washing detergent or gasoline in the 30's, the reward for choosing brand "a" was this glassware.
i've spent my adult life collecting it.
even though i think it's the ugliest shit out there.
for years, grandpa wynn's glassware sat in boxes in my attic.
i was waiting for the right cabinet, the right room, the right moment.
i was waiting for some place in my home to be enough.
when i moved last summer, the moment came: in the form of necessity.
those were the only dishes i had that would fit into the make-shift cabinets i had constructed from bookshelves.
for a while i was worried that i would break one of them.
finally did.
it wouldn't glue back together, just a hot fucking mess.
and i had to let it go.
i look at some people in my life the way that i look at sharon rose. i have put them in boxes, wrapped them in a bubble-wrap fear, and stuck them in an attic. and i still can't seem to eat off the plate. i look at it, imagine the perfect chicken salad sandwich, but can't use what people long gone have given to me.
8.19.2008
queen of the surface streets
i never knew that heaven
a) would be in my kitchen
b) would have me baking chocolate chip cookies
c) would include a soundtrack by devotchka
d) would only serve local yazoo ale
e) would require a dress code of underwear and aprons
f) would have no air conditioning
a) would be in my kitchen
b) would have me baking chocolate chip cookies
c) would include a soundtrack by devotchka
d) would only serve local yazoo ale
e) would require a dress code of underwear and aprons
f) would have no air conditioning
white wedding
this morning when i was walking from my parking lot to the garage, there was this white balloon floating about 2 feet from the ground. it was on a ribbon that someone had curled at the end, and it wasn't an egg shaped balloon. it was shaped like an orange.
it was beautiful against the asphalt and it made me think of the kind of wedding where people have crappy food and flowers, but they are in love. like really in love- to the point where they never once thought about her bouquet of white carnations.
i like white carnations.
it was beautiful against the asphalt and it made me think of the kind of wedding where people have crappy food and flowers, but they are in love. like really in love- to the point where they never once thought about her bouquet of white carnations.
i like white carnations.
8.06.2008
sestina, baby part duex
sestinas are fun. i've played with them before on here.
i wrote this one on the plane from chi to nash.
the words were given to me by my man, who was sitting next to a man. a very. big. man.
Hell hell hell orange gummy big Sestina. Hell.
Her Sestina for the Newlywed made swell
An in-flight urge to write my own. Well,
I unfurl your contribution and see hell, hell, hell.
Now I am unsure. And the glare of orange
Sun from the wings makes my gum
Turn my stomach as I notice how big
The man we would pass these six words over is. Bisecting
The aisle with a note, I feel embarrassed. Hell,
Kind of annoying. But I am so bored. My
Eyes cross over the part of him that he
Can’t keep from spilling into 27B, a swell
Of bad choices, covering your arm rest. He is foreign
And too must feel as though in hell.
Snicker of a drunk. Reach of your arm. How big
He is in this airspace. If he sat by the window, orange
Light reflecting from fuselage would not pass. Well,
Maybe I’m exaggerating. But his hell
Is as our hell is as her hell: kind of gummy.
Present, congealed, of our own creation. Yup. Gummy.
Like the worms I bought in the airport shop. Not candy shells
But soft and changing as we spit, worry, and chew. He
and his excess blocking the sun, big
with heat and sweat. I wonder if like fires in hell
the light he sees in the glare of memory is orange.
Though I hate to do such shame to orange.
It’s a lovely hue. One of my
Heart. And anyway, I don’t believe in hell.
Couldn’t possibly. Have you been to Chicago? Hell.
A bed on Columbus Avenue with motor oil bisecting
The concrete palette of sleeping regret. That’s hell.
And in the smell of that street, my chest swells
With pangs of an eye twitch, a telling orange
Moment that that seems small in the big
Space of what we might create. If we don’t gum
It up by stoking the fire of what we know as hell.
The little pieces of them we carry. Real Hell.
Can you write about hell on an airplane? A shell
Of steel, not so big this far from Midway? Orange
Window-seat light at, well maybe, 30,000 feet. Oh Hell.
i wrote this one on the plane from chi to nash.
the words were given to me by my man, who was sitting next to a man. a very. big. man.
Hell hell hell orange gummy big Sestina. Hell.
Her Sestina for the Newlywed made swell
An in-flight urge to write my own. Well,
I unfurl your contribution and see hell, hell, hell.
Now I am unsure. And the glare of orange
Sun from the wings makes my gum
Turn my stomach as I notice how big
The man we would pass these six words over is. Bisecting
The aisle with a note, I feel embarrassed. Hell,
Kind of annoying. But I am so bored. My
Eyes cross over the part of him that he
Can’t keep from spilling into 27B, a swell
Of bad choices, covering your arm rest. He is foreign
And too must feel as though in hell.
Snicker of a drunk. Reach of your arm. How big
He is in this airspace. If he sat by the window, orange
Light reflecting from fuselage would not pass. Well,
Maybe I’m exaggerating. But his hell
Is as our hell is as her hell: kind of gummy.
Present, congealed, of our own creation. Yup. Gummy.
Like the worms I bought in the airport shop. Not candy shells
But soft and changing as we spit, worry, and chew. He
and his excess blocking the sun, big
with heat and sweat. I wonder if like fires in hell
the light he sees in the glare of memory is orange.
Though I hate to do such shame to orange.
It’s a lovely hue. One of my
Heart. And anyway, I don’t believe in hell.
Couldn’t possibly. Have you been to Chicago? Hell.
A bed on Columbus Avenue with motor oil bisecting
The concrete palette of sleeping regret. That’s hell.
And in the smell of that street, my chest swells
With pangs of an eye twitch, a telling orange
Moment that that seems small in the big
Space of what we might create. If we don’t gum
It up by stoking the fire of what we know as hell.
The little pieces of them we carry. Real Hell.
Can you write about hell on an airplane? A shell
Of steel, not so big this far from Midway? Orange
Window-seat light at, well maybe, 30,000 feet. Oh Hell.
7.28.2008
shouldn't be ashamed
if you thought last week's library selections were frightening... you were wrong. i LOVED them both. this week's however, fall in the self-help category and therefore engender true embarassment. hopefully, the FBI isn't checking my records for homeland security b.s. cause then i'd have to admit i suck at relationships.
7.21.2008
faithless, the wonder boy
what i've checked out from the library this week.
Soon I will Be Invincible : Novel / Austin Grossman
The Astonishing X-men #1-25
someone needs to get me subscription to cosmo.
i used to be a girl.
Soon I will Be Invincible : Novel / Austin Grossman
The Astonishing X-men #1-25
someone needs to get me subscription to cosmo.
i used to be a girl.
7.17.2008
don't change your plans
i am not creative right now.
i'm too tired, but something that's been on my mind is the idea of placeholders in our lives. sitting in the vanderbilt cafeteria the other day, drinking really good coffee from fiesta ware, and talking to a mentor about what the future holds, i got chastised. hard core.
man said, "poet laureate of coney island, you can't put off going to grad school just because you MIGHT have children in the next five years."
seriously, i am a 32 year old woman who is afraid to go balls to the wall after grad school because i know that if i do, i will not do anything about making a family or a life with another human being. that will be it. i'll be crazy career lady.
instead, i am crazy placeholder lady.
or seat saver lady.
maybe, a million in the bank wearing kmart clothes lady.
and it's fucking stupid.
i'm holding a seat for something that is not even a shadow in my life,
i'm not married.
i don't live with anyone.
in fact, i stutter when i use the word boyfriend.
but i can say that i'll wait on what i want to do for something i'm not sure about just because to not do it would be more than the rest of the world can handle.
i officially suck.
working on it.
i'm too tired, but something that's been on my mind is the idea of placeholders in our lives. sitting in the vanderbilt cafeteria the other day, drinking really good coffee from fiesta ware, and talking to a mentor about what the future holds, i got chastised. hard core.
man said, "poet laureate of coney island, you can't put off going to grad school just because you MIGHT have children in the next five years."
seriously, i am a 32 year old woman who is afraid to go balls to the wall after grad school because i know that if i do, i will not do anything about making a family or a life with another human being. that will be it. i'll be crazy career lady.
instead, i am crazy placeholder lady.
or seat saver lady.
maybe, a million in the bank wearing kmart clothes lady.
and it's fucking stupid.
i'm holding a seat for something that is not even a shadow in my life,
i'm not married.
i don't live with anyone.
in fact, i stutter when i use the word boyfriend.
but i can say that i'll wait on what i want to do for something i'm not sure about just because to not do it would be more than the rest of the world can handle.
i officially suck.
working on it.
6.17.2008
my boyfriend's back and your gonna get in trouble
so i was just chatting with a co-worker about office politics and what not, and i noticed that she had this faux album cover of the pixies dolittle. one of my favorite records of all time.
i see the album cover and bust out, "a friend of mine has some of those by the same artist. wait, my boyfriend does."
she says, "freudian, much?"
conversation ensues to resolve that it's not freudian.
it's just gay to say boyfirend at the age of 32.
except it's not gay, because gay people got ALL the grown up words for boyfriend.
even though there are only 2.
partner and lover.
those are grown-up words.
what the hell?
when does the statute of limitations run out on the word boyfriend?
i see the album cover and bust out, "a friend of mine has some of those by the same artist. wait, my boyfriend does."
she says, "freudian, much?"
conversation ensues to resolve that it's not freudian.
it's just gay to say boyfirend at the age of 32.
except it's not gay, because gay people got ALL the grown up words for boyfriend.
even though there are only 2.
partner and lover.
those are grown-up words.
what the hell?
when does the statute of limitations run out on the word boyfriend?
5.19.2008
house of cards
last summer a friend and i were telling stories about growing up in the pre-digital world. i explained summer months in a pin oak tree with a book or a journal, hiding from my brother. he spent his winter months on the living room floor building houses of cards.
i thought that this was super weird and challenged him on the story.
who really sits around doing nothing long enough to build a house of cards?
turns out he did. and was in the guinness book of world records for making one with the most cards, ever. with a 1979 article from the Omaha paper, my friend proved that people really do spend ridiculous amounts of time on meaningless constructs, and the world takes notice.
last night, someone else and i were also telling stories about growing up. i spoke of my pin oak, and he talked his neighborhood on the lake, the freedom of swimming pool baths and no underwear in july.
in this conversation, i added on to the house of cards that i have built. rooms of families and other relationships arranged with such delicate mortar, that they are hard to keep upright in an honest conversation. i made no mention of brazillian voices, hallway pacing, or the squirrel on a fence.
later on his couch, in the fold of a blue silk dress over green corduroy, i got tired of arranging hearts, diamonds and spades in a scaffold that keeps falling. i have wasted too much of what i've been dealt in the neighborhood of "right things to do". too much of these places are done in with one breath. one word. or one squirrel.
i'm quitting card games.
what comes next will be forged from pin oak.
maybe something with a roof to tell secrets on.
and for sure, there's gonna be a fence that i can see over.
i'm chasing that fucking squirrel back into his own yard.
i thought that this was super weird and challenged him on the story.
who really sits around doing nothing long enough to build a house of cards?
turns out he did. and was in the guinness book of world records for making one with the most cards, ever. with a 1979 article from the Omaha paper, my friend proved that people really do spend ridiculous amounts of time on meaningless constructs, and the world takes notice.
last night, someone else and i were also telling stories about growing up. i spoke of my pin oak, and he talked his neighborhood on the lake, the freedom of swimming pool baths and no underwear in july.
in this conversation, i added on to the house of cards that i have built. rooms of families and other relationships arranged with such delicate mortar, that they are hard to keep upright in an honest conversation. i made no mention of brazillian voices, hallway pacing, or the squirrel on a fence.
later on his couch, in the fold of a blue silk dress over green corduroy, i got tired of arranging hearts, diamonds and spades in a scaffold that keeps falling. i have wasted too much of what i've been dealt in the neighborhood of "right things to do". too much of these places are done in with one breath. one word. or one squirrel.
i'm quitting card games.
what comes next will be forged from pin oak.
maybe something with a roof to tell secrets on.
and for sure, there's gonna be a fence that i can see over.
i'm chasing that fucking squirrel back into his own yard.
5.14.2008
communication breakdown
when i taught creative writing, i was a hag for precision in language. never say tree, make it oak or ash. avoid the word angry, instead write blushing necks and the tightening of a shoulder. i was intent on the idea that words had to be exact to communicate what is felt, known, or believed. only in detailed language could we ever convey the truth in what we are.
last night destroyed that.
i sat at a bar with a man. and in our language, there was no miscommunication. everything we said was what we meant. politics. reading. family. city. all clearly defined.
but at the same time, we did not communicate.
the noise of the bar was a constant distraction.
the basketball fans on espn inexplicably wore yellow shirts.
the bartender tossed me the crown from a bottle of chambord, as though all women really want to be a princess. no matter how precise my words, the truth in that moment was that i not was even there.
and then.
on the way home.
i attempted to communicate with someone else. and the words would not come. stuttering lead to a change in breathing patterns and silences heavier than a house.
so i realized. that the truth in what i am is not in precise language, but in snapshot moments in my digital mind.
a text message at 10pm.
a cookie saved until 9.
the chatter of rain on a window.
and a door opening for one last good-bye.
this morning i stood in the street and watched May winds pull silver maples the way that sheets billow around a body; a buick travelling gallatin road, saying puddle spray, new muffler, and i'm late to work.
and the truth of what i was in that moment had no language but a quote in a book at 2am.
i'll leave you with this poem by Jack Gilbert
The Forgotten Dialect of the Heart
How astonishing it is that language can almost mean, and frightening that it does not quite. Love, we say, God, we say, Rome and Michiko, we write; and the words get it wrong. We say bread and it means according to which nation. French has no word for home, and we have no word for strict pleasure. A people in northern India is dying out because their ancient tongue has no words for endearment. I dream of lost vocabularies that might express some of what we no longer can. Maybe the Etruscan texts would finally explain why the couples on their tombs are smiling. And maybe not. When the thousands of mysterious Sumerian tablets were translated, they seemed to be business records. But what if they are poems or psalms? My joy is the same as twelve Ethiopian goats standing silent in the morning light. Oh Lord, thou art slabs of salt and ingots of copper, as grand as ripe barley lithe under the wind's labor. Her breasts are six white oxen loaded with bolts of long-fibered Egyptian cotton. My love is a hundred pitchers of honey. Shiploads of thuya are what my body wants to say to your body. Giraffes are this desire in the dark. Perhaps spiral Minoan script is not a language but a map. What we feel most has no name but amber, archers, cinnamon, horses and birds.
last night destroyed that.
i sat at a bar with a man. and in our language, there was no miscommunication. everything we said was what we meant. politics. reading. family. city. all clearly defined.
but at the same time, we did not communicate.
the noise of the bar was a constant distraction.
the basketball fans on espn inexplicably wore yellow shirts.
the bartender tossed me the crown from a bottle of chambord, as though all women really want to be a princess. no matter how precise my words, the truth in that moment was that i not was even there.
and then.
on the way home.
i attempted to communicate with someone else. and the words would not come. stuttering lead to a change in breathing patterns and silences heavier than a house.
so i realized. that the truth in what i am is not in precise language, but in snapshot moments in my digital mind.
a text message at 10pm.
a cookie saved until 9.
the chatter of rain on a window.
and a door opening for one last good-bye.
this morning i stood in the street and watched May winds pull silver maples the way that sheets billow around a body; a buick travelling gallatin road, saying puddle spray, new muffler, and i'm late to work.
and the truth of what i was in that moment had no language but a quote in a book at 2am.
i'll leave you with this poem by Jack Gilbert
The Forgotten Dialect of the Heart
How astonishing it is that language can almost mean, and frightening that it does not quite. Love, we say, God, we say, Rome and Michiko, we write; and the words get it wrong. We say bread and it means according to which nation. French has no word for home, and we have no word for strict pleasure. A people in northern India is dying out because their ancient tongue has no words for endearment. I dream of lost vocabularies that might express some of what we no longer can. Maybe the Etruscan texts would finally explain why the couples on their tombs are smiling. And maybe not. When the thousands of mysterious Sumerian tablets were translated, they seemed to be business records. But what if they are poems or psalms? My joy is the same as twelve Ethiopian goats standing silent in the morning light. Oh Lord, thou art slabs of salt and ingots of copper, as grand as ripe barley lithe under the wind's labor. Her breasts are six white oxen loaded with bolts of long-fibered Egyptian cotton. My love is a hundred pitchers of honey. Shiploads of thuya are what my body wants to say to your body. Giraffes are this desire in the dark. Perhaps spiral Minoan script is not a language but a map. What we feel most has no name but amber, archers, cinnamon, horses and birds.
5.12.2008
quote of the day
"Art and love are the same thing: it's the process of seeing yourself in things that are not you. It's understanding the unreasonable."
Killing Yourself to Live
by Chuck Klosterman
this was offered up in an, "i've never shown this to anyone." moment from saturday night that i will keep in the queue of moments that i will never give back. this and 1920's bungalow windows to get on the roof, patterns of rust in the basement, the smell of his body after a horse race, losing a game of uno, the way he looked at me when i washed my face, and the moment i let go.
Killing Yourself to Live
by Chuck Klosterman
this was offered up in an, "i've never shown this to anyone." moment from saturday night that i will keep in the queue of moments that i will never give back. this and 1920's bungalow windows to get on the roof, patterns of rust in the basement, the smell of his body after a horse race, losing a game of uno, the way he looked at me when i washed my face, and the moment i let go.
favor
i needed to do myself one of these and not have said the first thing that flies out of my mouth. i did that wayyyy too many times at steeplechase.
all i know is that i had the most interesting conversation about love that i have ever been privy to with someone whom i share nothing and everything with.
that's kind of beautiful.
it's also kind of sad.
hm. that's life.
all i know is that i had the most interesting conversation about love that i have ever been privy to with someone whom i share nothing and everything with.
that's kind of beautiful.
it's also kind of sad.
hm. that's life.
5.01.2008
call it a day
did you know that they make sardines in buffalo wing sauce?
yup.
and they're good.
at 2am.
with chili cheese fritos and hot and spicy chex mix.
my feet are salt swollen to a shrek like state of not-zen.
wagon? can you stop? i'm getting on for a week or two.
yup.
and they're good.
at 2am.
with chili cheese fritos and hot and spicy chex mix.
my feet are salt swollen to a shrek like state of not-zen.
wagon? can you stop? i'm getting on for a week or two.
4.29.2008
my mind is ramblin'
growing up, relationship constructs and rules in accordance made sense.
my brother lived to torture me.
my parents lived to protect us.
and my friends lived to share twinkies with me.
my brother was allowed to trap me in the kitchen corner and force me to dance with the utility knife, but not the butcher knife. he could yell, "dance bitch, dance!" but was never to call me mother-fucker.
my parents would only leave me alone with said brother when every babysitter in a 167mile radius was booked. and if they had to leave me with him, they checked mileage on all cars and warned the neighbors next door to listen for screams.
concerning friends, i would give them unicorn pens, kaleidoscope pencils, and small change for bites of twinkies. if i happened to score a $5 bill, sometimes we negotiated the entire swiss cake roll. what? i was fat and my parents were health nuts.
childhood relationship were even.
fair.
understood by all parties involved.
that shit flew the coop in 8th grade. my brother hugged me for the first time in recorded history when he went to college. my parents quit pretending that they liked each other and no one was safe anymore. and exchanges between friends became ones of emotional collateral instead of refined sugar. and it's taken me 20 years to be glad that bird is long migrated.
sure. some of my relationships still follow the rules.
take work: i don't steal stamps and don't use my corporate card for personal expenses. take the irs: i file by april 15th and pay my taxes. god, do i pay my taxes. and my car. well- i sink hundreds of dollars into it and it looks like shit.
these are rules i am still okay with. but others... i'm done.
like my ex.
i refuse to follow the rule that says we should hate each other.
i refuse to follow the rule that says we should hook up after break up.
that man and i made vows. and while i'm not keeping them, i still respect that i once made them.
like my best friend.
i refuse to covet her beautiful children and fabulous husband.
i refuse to think that she owes me any more time than she can give.
this woman and i have made it through boyfriend trades, hallucinogenics and after-birth; i think it's okay if we don't talk on the phone for a month.
like men i like to kiss.
i refuse to demand that because you can't get away from me means that you should be with me.
i refuse to think you can only get what you need in boyfriend, girlfriend and fiancé.
some people and i are connected through time, music and really great tv. no one says it's gotta fit into a 30 minute time slot.
don't get me wrong.
when you see a stop sign- come to a complete.
wear clothes when you leave the house.
for god's sake, leave the room to fart.
but don't. just don't.
tell me
that he should
and she should
and we should
be anything other
than what we are.
my brother lived to torture me.
my parents lived to protect us.
and my friends lived to share twinkies with me.
my brother was allowed to trap me in the kitchen corner and force me to dance with the utility knife, but not the butcher knife. he could yell, "dance bitch, dance!" but was never to call me mother-fucker.
my parents would only leave me alone with said brother when every babysitter in a 167mile radius was booked. and if they had to leave me with him, they checked mileage on all cars and warned the neighbors next door to listen for screams.
concerning friends, i would give them unicorn pens, kaleidoscope pencils, and small change for bites of twinkies. if i happened to score a $5 bill, sometimes we negotiated the entire swiss cake roll. what? i was fat and my parents were health nuts.
childhood relationship were even.
fair.
understood by all parties involved.
that shit flew the coop in 8th grade. my brother hugged me for the first time in recorded history when he went to college. my parents quit pretending that they liked each other and no one was safe anymore. and exchanges between friends became ones of emotional collateral instead of refined sugar. and it's taken me 20 years to be glad that bird is long migrated.
sure. some of my relationships still follow the rules.
take work: i don't steal stamps and don't use my corporate card for personal expenses. take the irs: i file by april 15th and pay my taxes. god, do i pay my taxes. and my car. well- i sink hundreds of dollars into it and it looks like shit.
these are rules i am still okay with. but others... i'm done.
like my ex.
i refuse to follow the rule that says we should hate each other.
i refuse to follow the rule that says we should hook up after break up.
that man and i made vows. and while i'm not keeping them, i still respect that i once made them.
like my best friend.
i refuse to covet her beautiful children and fabulous husband.
i refuse to think that she owes me any more time than she can give.
this woman and i have made it through boyfriend trades, hallucinogenics and after-birth; i think it's okay if we don't talk on the phone for a month.
like men i like to kiss.
i refuse to demand that because you can't get away from me means that you should be with me.
i refuse to think you can only get what you need in boyfriend, girlfriend and fiancé.
some people and i are connected through time, music and really great tv. no one says it's gotta fit into a 30 minute time slot.
don't get me wrong.
when you see a stop sign- come to a complete.
wear clothes when you leave the house.
for god's sake, leave the room to fart.
but don't. just don't.
tell me
that he should
and she should
and we should
be anything other
than what we are.
4.25.2008
my friend goo
last night was a cluster fuck and i can't even work a metaphor around it.
i tried to play with the idea of all or nothing, but all i got was nothing.
so basically...
i went to see sonic youth. while i was standing in line to get in, a guy from work who wears the same bifocals his grandfather wore in 1983 (possibly his hairpiece too) spots me. i'm talking 43 years old. clint eastwood from the 80's hair. black jeans and doc martens.
seriously.
not.
reasonable.
to look at.
soooo, he leaves to sell his extra ticket and returns to suck the life force out of me. literally, the entire time he's talking to me DURING THE MUSIC i'm texting my friend and inching away. i mean i'm texting for a decade. inching away, and he still won't get away.
text transcription:
me: i've seen 2 work douches at this concert and am scared. people who work where i do are weird. now i'm getting work douche stalked.
bff: where the f are you? what concert?
me: sonic youth. punk. he found me and i am sharting myself. i hate being nice.
bff: who is it
me: he might be 46 and bought his glasses in 1983.and he has kept them since.
bff: lose him. who are you with?
me: alone. i keep inching away and he keeps getting closer. you know how bitchy i am.
bff: kick his ass seabass
me: i want to kill myself.
bff: buckling. i'm going to bed
me: and let me modify that. i want to kill myself with a toothpick.
bff: buckling
me: nite nite. if i turn up missing, fun bobby from work is wearing my skin
bff: oh god
me: just emptied the douche on the other work cat.
bff: ok good
now. if you couldn't already tell. this blog is really written by a 17 year old boy.
seriously. i may be one.
except for the fact that 3 seconds after i emptied the work douche, i met a really hot guy. we chatted. we were walking over to hang with his friends.
then.
my uterus erupted in my pants.
proving that i am not a 17 year old boy.
i'm a 32 year old woman.
who can't control her period.
maybe i should have hung out with the douche.
cause i walked out the door in shame either way.
i tried to play with the idea of all or nothing, but all i got was nothing.
so basically...
i went to see sonic youth. while i was standing in line to get in, a guy from work who wears the same bifocals his grandfather wore in 1983 (possibly his hairpiece too) spots me. i'm talking 43 years old. clint eastwood from the 80's hair. black jeans and doc martens.
seriously.
not.
reasonable.
to look at.
soooo, he leaves to sell his extra ticket and returns to suck the life force out of me. literally, the entire time he's talking to me DURING THE MUSIC i'm texting my friend and inching away. i mean i'm texting for a decade. inching away, and he still won't get away.
text transcription:
me: i've seen 2 work douches at this concert and am scared. people who work where i do are weird. now i'm getting work douche stalked.
bff: where the f are you? what concert?
me: sonic youth. punk. he found me and i am sharting myself. i hate being nice.
bff: who is it
me: he might be 46 and bought his glasses in 1983.and he has kept them since.
bff: lose him. who are you with?
me: alone. i keep inching away and he keeps getting closer. you know how bitchy i am.
bff: kick his ass seabass
me: i want to kill myself.
bff: buckling. i'm going to bed
me: and let me modify that. i want to kill myself with a toothpick.
bff: buckling
me: nite nite. if i turn up missing, fun bobby from work is wearing my skin
bff: oh god
me: just emptied the douche on the other work cat.
bff: ok good
now. if you couldn't already tell. this blog is really written by a 17 year old boy.
seriously. i may be one.
except for the fact that 3 seconds after i emptied the work douche, i met a really hot guy. we chatted. we were walking over to hang with his friends.
then.
my uterus erupted in my pants.
proving that i am not a 17 year old boy.
i'm a 32 year old woman.
who can't control her period.
maybe i should have hung out with the douche.
cause i walked out the door in shame either way.
4.24.2008
sheep scratch fever
so last night i made it out with one cat earing missing and my afro curls a-raging.
this morning i made it home with a bitemark on my hip and a scratch on my thigh.
good times were had by all. especially the sheep dog.
this morning i made it home with a bitemark on my hip and a scratch on my thigh.
good times were had by all. especially the sheep dog.
4.20.2008
see how they run
i am attracted to 2 kinds of people:
ones who are so involved in their own pain that it destroys them
and
ones who are so detached from their own pain that it destroys them
i can navigate the involved.
i can not navigate the detached.
i'm done with the detached. i can not even begin to understand not seeing the horror in who we are. it's the worst kind of blindness.
ones who are so involved in their own pain that it destroys them
and
ones who are so detached from their own pain that it destroys them
i can navigate the involved.
i can not navigate the detached.
i'm done with the detached. i can not even begin to understand not seeing the horror in who we are. it's the worst kind of blindness.
4.19.2008
holy holy holy
it's been a long standing policy of mine to not date guys from work. probably because they have all either been gay, married, or seriously not reasonable to look at. no one yet has tempted me to break from the philosophy of "don't shit where you eat".
recently though, a friend has considered shitting where she prays. she gave her digits to a man whose wife died a few months back. are we really there yet? i mean. divorce, i can handle. but i'm not ready for dead.
anyway, they went to lunch and made a dinner date that she backed out of. then he stalked her at service and whispered in her ear during liturgy. the other day, he texted her saying that playing hard to get was working. this did not go over well.
so now i'm wondering, how is she going to go to church without wondering where the pissed off widower is sitting?
he whispers.
he stalks.
he gets defensive.
this was not the holy trinity she was looking for...
recently though, a friend has considered shitting where she prays. she gave her digits to a man whose wife died a few months back. are we really there yet? i mean. divorce, i can handle. but i'm not ready for dead.
anyway, they went to lunch and made a dinner date that she backed out of. then he stalked her at service and whispered in her ear during liturgy. the other day, he texted her saying that playing hard to get was working. this did not go over well.
so now i'm wondering, how is she going to go to church without wondering where the pissed off widower is sitting?
he whispers.
he stalks.
he gets defensive.
this was not the holy trinity she was looking for...
4.18.2008
You Will. You? Will. You? Will. You? Will
be alone forever.
i will be single forever.
and this is not one of those, nobody wants me whines
(i don't do that and people want me).
and this is not one of those, i like being alone diatribes
(cause i am reasonably sociable).
this is the stark realization that i am too judgemental to accept people.
and i think that everyone but me and my friends are total dorks.
in the past 30 months, i have gone on at least as many first dates. i tried to recount them all this morning, but got distracted by "oh my god, i forgot about that guy" too many times to continue counting. and i got the willies/shivers from remembering guys who build mc donalds playgrounds.
case in point: coffee with the guy who e-mailed me from my claynation article:
took me somewhere local (+)
is smart and funny (+)
is reasonable to look at (+)
likes baseball (+)
takes initiative(+)
ran a 5K in under 19 minutes (+)
wears Adidas gazelles (+)
BUT (a big but, as in baby got back)
he wore a necklace and some rings (really madonna?)
he wore a leather jacket (easter was like 3 fucking weeks ago)
his eyes were a little wide open (abnormal psychology)
he lives in franklin (where amy grant eats at bread and company)
and he had a lisp (i am going to hell)
he's nice. he's funny. he likes me.
but he has no idea who stephen malkmus is.
he has no possession of sarcasm.
i want a man who...
is as irresponsible, yet responsible as myself
knows who yo le tengo is
laughs when people fall down, then feels bad (a little)
has all his teeth
is a smart ass
won't let me run all over him
has has sex appeal
doesn't sit on his ass all night
is at least 5 foot 6 and not fat
has dark hair (something yuck about pasty blonds)
knows that sports events are for drinking
and lives in my neighborhood (where robert plant goes for sushi)
that's right, people. led zeppelin.
i want to date myself.
oh. one more reason i will not get married:
i'm 32 and i use the phrase "total dork".
i will be single forever.
and this is not one of those, nobody wants me whines
(i don't do that and people want me).
and this is not one of those, i like being alone diatribes
(cause i am reasonably sociable).
this is the stark realization that i am too judgemental to accept people.
and i think that everyone but me and my friends are total dorks.
in the past 30 months, i have gone on at least as many first dates. i tried to recount them all this morning, but got distracted by "oh my god, i forgot about that guy" too many times to continue counting. and i got the willies/shivers from remembering guys who build mc donalds playgrounds.
case in point: coffee with the guy who e-mailed me from my claynation article:
took me somewhere local (+)
is smart and funny (+)
is reasonable to look at (+)
likes baseball (+)
takes initiative(+)
ran a 5K in under 19 minutes (+)
wears Adidas gazelles (+)
BUT (a big but, as in baby got back)
he wore a necklace and some rings (really madonna?)
he wore a leather jacket (easter was like 3 fucking weeks ago)
his eyes were a little wide open (abnormal psychology)
he lives in franklin (where amy grant eats at bread and company)
and he had a lisp (i am going to hell)
he's nice. he's funny. he likes me.
but he has no idea who stephen malkmus is.
he has no possession of sarcasm.
i want a man who...
is as irresponsible, yet responsible as myself
knows who yo le tengo is
laughs when people fall down, then feels bad (a little)
has all his teeth
is a smart ass
won't let me run all over him
has has sex appeal
doesn't sit on his ass all night
is at least 5 foot 6 and not fat
has dark hair (something yuck about pasty blonds)
knows that sports events are for drinking
and lives in my neighborhood (where robert plant goes for sushi)
that's right, people. led zeppelin.
i want to date myself.
oh. one more reason i will not get married:
i'm 32 and i use the phrase "total dork".
4.07.2008
puffy muff
my friends love eating at the puffy muffin. i don't love the congealed cranberry salad scene, but i go with them. because somehow, i always end up spewing chicken salad from my nose when we eat there. sometimes it's because we are sitting next to rascal flatts and they are wolfing jello salad. sometimes its the blue haired ladies who are sharing half a sandwich. sometimes it's sunday morning and i'm still drunk- whatever. i spew.
and spewing from orafices is a good thing.
unless you sit on said orafice.
which is what reminded me of the puffy muff.
i had surgery on my muff organs, and this made me puffy.
who knew that a human could gain 10 pounds in 48 hours? i entered the surgery center monday morning weighing 125 and weighed in on wednesday at 135.
this equates to 2 clothing sizes up (of which i don't own).
this equates to irrational crying (of which i don't do).
this equates to me trashing the percocet (of which constipates).
if someone had told me my ankles and face would swell like a pregnant lady, i may have kept the squirmy little cells that tried to turn my muff into a petri dish for st. jude's.
and i would have eaten more to earn it.
and spewing from orafices is a good thing.
unless you sit on said orafice.
which is what reminded me of the puffy muff.
i had surgery on my muff organs, and this made me puffy.
who knew that a human could gain 10 pounds in 48 hours? i entered the surgery center monday morning weighing 125 and weighed in on wednesday at 135.
this equates to 2 clothing sizes up (of which i don't own).
this equates to irrational crying (of which i don't do).
this equates to me trashing the percocet (of which constipates).
if someone had told me my ankles and face would swell like a pregnant lady, i may have kept the squirmy little cells that tried to turn my muff into a petri dish for st. jude's.
and i would have eaten more to earn it.
3.21.2008
my league
1.) Looks - 9 ( i need boobs)
2.) Humor - 10 (have you read my blog?)
3.) Cleanliness - 5 (have you been to my house?)
4.) Intelligence - 9 (check my GRE score)
5.) Income - 3 (i can't even talk about it)
6.) Manners - 6 (depends on the audience)
7.) Interests - 10 (i like to eat things i find on the side of the road)
8.) Experience - 7 (have you met my family?)
9.) Attentiveness - 2 (huh?)
10.) Chemistry\ Personality - 10 (again, have you read my blog?)
2.) Humor - 10 (have you read my blog?)
3.) Cleanliness - 5 (have you been to my house?)
4.) Intelligence - 9 (check my GRE score)
5.) Income - 3 (i can't even talk about it)
6.) Manners - 6 (depends on the audience)
7.) Interests - 10 (i like to eat things i find on the side of the road)
8.) Experience - 7 (have you met my family?)
9.) Attentiveness - 2 (huh?)
10.) Chemistry\ Personality - 10 (again, have you read my blog?)
stolen from brian in minneapolis
sometimes my friends read my blog.
sometimes brian from minnesota reads my blog.
sometimes i read his.
sometimes i wonder if brian and i know the same people,
if he was searching through blogger profiles bored as hell one day
and stumbled upon my rants,
if liking the same book brought us together,
or if he's the scary motherfucker married guy
who lives in my neighborhood
and he's faking with the entire cold state.
i just think about it sometimes, is all.
today i am stealing his blog and playing with it.
because i like it, alot.
HERE's HIS BLOG:
We have often heard people say, "Whoa she is way out of his league." Which usually means that one of the dating partners is much more attractive then the other. However, the reality is that there are 100's or 1000's of leagues and you are in several of them at the same time. For example you may be in the great looking league but also in the dumb as a box of rocks league and in the generous league. Are you with me so far?
This explanation assumes that you grant a few common terms.
1.) That there are multiple leagues that people belong to. Income League, Attractiveness League, Humor League etc.
2.) That there are varying levels of how much someone belongs to one of those leagues. For example you can fall somewhere on a scale of 1-10. I am a 7 in looks btw.
Now here is how it all works. This is a fun experiment to do with your friends at a bar. Write on a napkin these ten things. (Or pick 10 others that are important to you order does not matter)
1.) Looks
2.) Humor
3.) Cleanliness
4.) Intelligence
5.) Income
6.) Manners
7.) Interests (Hobbies or things that make you interesting)
8.) Experience (Amount of things you have had to overcome)
9.) Attentiveness (How well you pay attention)
10.) Chemistry\ Personality
Now rank your self 1-10 in each
Have your friends do the same.
Take all the totals...come on you haven't forgotten all those Stats lessons have you?
sometimes brian from minnesota reads my blog.
sometimes i read his.
sometimes i wonder if brian and i know the same people,
if he was searching through blogger profiles bored as hell one day
and stumbled upon my rants,
if liking the same book brought us together,
or if he's the scary motherfucker married guy
who lives in my neighborhood
and he's faking with the entire cold state.
i just think about it sometimes, is all.
today i am stealing his blog and playing with it.
because i like it, alot.
HERE's HIS BLOG:
We have often heard people say, "Whoa she is way out of his league." Which usually means that one of the dating partners is much more attractive then the other. However, the reality is that there are 100's or 1000's of leagues and you are in several of them at the same time. For example you may be in the great looking league but also in the dumb as a box of rocks league and in the generous league. Are you with me so far?
This explanation assumes that you grant a few common terms.
1.) That there are multiple leagues that people belong to. Income League, Attractiveness League, Humor League etc.
2.) That there are varying levels of how much someone belongs to one of those leagues. For example you can fall somewhere on a scale of 1-10. I am a 7 in looks btw.
Now here is how it all works. This is a fun experiment to do with your friends at a bar. Write on a napkin these ten things. (Or pick 10 others that are important to you order does not matter)
1.) Looks
2.) Humor
3.) Cleanliness
4.) Intelligence
5.) Income
6.) Manners
7.) Interests (Hobbies or things that make you interesting)
8.) Experience (Amount of things you have had to overcome)
9.) Attentiveness (How well you pay attention)
10.) Chemistry\ Personality
Now rank your self 1-10 in each
Have your friends do the same.
Take all the totals...come on you haven't forgotten all those Stats lessons have you?
3.19.2008
heart cooks brain
i cried today. wtf?
i swear i need to just get my uterus removed.
or put it in a box.
i'm not using it or anything.
i swear i need to just get my uterus removed.
or put it in a box.
i'm not using it or anything.
3.18.2008
turn turn turn
the snow has melted. the trace animal likes to flick me on the head: like i am his 12 year old sister.
and the sun is bright. so i've called in sick with the doctor to independently study a virus i've not been able to shake. maybe on a patio with maguaritas?
i'm ready for what comes next and it keeps getting tangled in with the effects of past storms. in this tangle i've discovered that dogs over 4 pounds sometimes wear barrettes.
and i think it's cute.
oh.
and i'm plotting the coupe of a local gov't office.
and the sun is bright. so i've called in sick with the doctor to independently study a virus i've not been able to shake. maybe on a patio with maguaritas?
i'm ready for what comes next and it keeps getting tangled in with the effects of past storms. in this tangle i've discovered that dogs over 4 pounds sometimes wear barrettes.
and i think it's cute.
oh.
and i'm plotting the coupe of a local gov't office.
3.08.2008
man hunter
it snowed 5 inches last night... a serious anomaly for nashville night life.
normally, the only flakes nashville sees tend to fall from the gelled locks of the early 40's crowd that populates the trace (a bar which happened to close last week due to some tax issues). poor almost-old-men. now they will have to find somewhere else to hunt urban cougars with silicone boobs and impending appointments for their first eye lift.
anyway, last night i didn't get to see the start of the storm. i was at the yazoo brewery pub with my red-haired friend and two guys who were scouting new habitats since the closing of the trace. i don't think they'll make yazoo theirs: too much patagonia and patchouli. however, i am seriously considering making a temporary nest there. the guy to girl ration was about 25:1. and i do like a hiker type.
oddly, i can tolerate this flake from the trace. although he was camouflaged in an early 1990's pelt of light washed jeans and plaid ralph lauren, he was intelligent for his species. community minded. funny. and reasonable to look at, in a 90210 kind of way.
maybe it was the snow; maybe it was the beer; maybe it was the fact that love is not even in the forecast for an epoch(an early winter cold front killed all spring buds on this hydrangea). whatever it is, the snow is melting and i'm loading my gun.
it's not been 24 hours and he's foraging education articles from the tennessean to present to me.
oooh.
he just texted.
wow.
this species is destined for extinction.
normally, the only flakes nashville sees tend to fall from the gelled locks of the early 40's crowd that populates the trace (a bar which happened to close last week due to some tax issues). poor almost-old-men. now they will have to find somewhere else to hunt urban cougars with silicone boobs and impending appointments for their first eye lift.
anyway, last night i didn't get to see the start of the storm. i was at the yazoo brewery pub with my red-haired friend and two guys who were scouting new habitats since the closing of the trace. i don't think they'll make yazoo theirs: too much patagonia and patchouli. however, i am seriously considering making a temporary nest there. the guy to girl ration was about 25:1. and i do like a hiker type.
oddly, i can tolerate this flake from the trace. although he was camouflaged in an early 1990's pelt of light washed jeans and plaid ralph lauren, he was intelligent for his species. community minded. funny. and reasonable to look at, in a 90210 kind of way.
maybe it was the snow; maybe it was the beer; maybe it was the fact that love is not even in the forecast for an epoch(an early winter cold front killed all spring buds on this hydrangea). whatever it is, the snow is melting and i'm loading my gun.
it's not been 24 hours and he's foraging education articles from the tennessean to present to me.
oooh.
he just texted.
wow.
this species is destined for extinction.
3.05.2008
the bachelorette
lined up in the queue for this week's episode of the bachelorette are...
an MD who is the obsessive true love crush of a best friend. he likes to talk about "blacks".
an art lover who sat on the porch drinking tea and reading the hollywood issue of vanity fair last sunday. um, he also wants to take me to see the full monty next friday. at the local JCC.
a 41 year old insurance sales manager who played high school football with my brother.
can i hurt a friend and kiss a racist?
can i ignore a full monty?
can i be the trophy wife of a germantown high school football player?
tune in next week for the next episode of the bachelorette.
hey, ABC started it.
an MD who is the obsessive true love crush of a best friend. he likes to talk about "blacks".
an art lover who sat on the porch drinking tea and reading the hollywood issue of vanity fair last sunday. um, he also wants to take me to see the full monty next friday. at the local JCC.
a 41 year old insurance sales manager who played high school football with my brother.
can i hurt a friend and kiss a racist?
can i ignore a full monty?
can i be the trophy wife of a germantown high school football player?
tune in next week for the next episode of the bachelorette.
hey, ABC started it.
3.03.2008
wilco part 2
icanteventalkaboutit.
FYI- describing this concert is like describing love; impossible. Like you can never explain it to someone else. I am still to overwhelmed to make much articulate commentary about Wilco at the Ryman, but here goes...
I have had some good times in life.
I have seen some great shows.
I've seen Wilco before and loved it.
But Wilco at the Ryman was the best it may ever get.
And I'm okay with that.
Jeffy Tweedy wore a Manuel (or manuel inspired) white suit with cardinals and roses sequined upon it. He looked perfect- not like some ass who wants to dress up to be in Nashville; he was Nashville. His voice was spot on, completely clear in a way I hadn't noticed it could be. The Ryman is Tweedy's (and Wilco's) venue, most clearly shown when he came out for the first encore and sang acoustic.He can also carry a melody through a jam like nobody's business- which is a little hard to notice on records.
Nels Cline is a fucking guitarist. The man is the shit blend of jam rock, wa wa pedal fabulousness, and rock star. He's the perfect addition to the band and his style violates the ears in only the best ways. I love him with Wilco, in a way I hadn't (cause I'm not the biggest Sky Blue Sky Fan and I blamed that on him). No more blame.
And John Stirratt was rockin. I wore lipstick for him, but he didn't see it from the stage. I'll have to stalk later. Oh yeah- he's talented, too.
Anyway... until the first encore (and there were 2), most of the balcony sat in the pews. Not in the way that showed they weren't into it, but in the way that showed every person was LISTENING. The encore brought the house to their feet and the crowd became part of Wilco; like sang with them as a chorus. beautiful.
As well, they were filming the performance, so we really got the best of Wilco. I will own this footage at some point. Wilco played from every album and made a case for their excellence by proving that in their breadth of style, the depth lies in their consistent creativity and excellence.
My concert mate was new to Wilco and liked them enough before. He's been around the concert bush a few times and called it the best concert he has ever seen in his life. It was definitely the best concert the Ryman has ever seen.
Done.
For now.
FYI- describing this concert is like describing love; impossible. Like you can never explain it to someone else. I am still to overwhelmed to make much articulate commentary about Wilco at the Ryman, but here goes...
I have had some good times in life.
I have seen some great shows.
I've seen Wilco before and loved it.
But Wilco at the Ryman was the best it may ever get.
And I'm okay with that.
Jeffy Tweedy wore a Manuel (or manuel inspired) white suit with cardinals and roses sequined upon it. He looked perfect- not like some ass who wants to dress up to be in Nashville; he was Nashville. His voice was spot on, completely clear in a way I hadn't noticed it could be. The Ryman is Tweedy's (and Wilco's) venue, most clearly shown when he came out for the first encore and sang acoustic.He can also carry a melody through a jam like nobody's business- which is a little hard to notice on records.
Nels Cline is a fucking guitarist. The man is the shit blend of jam rock, wa wa pedal fabulousness, and rock star. He's the perfect addition to the band and his style violates the ears in only the best ways. I love him with Wilco, in a way I hadn't (cause I'm not the biggest Sky Blue Sky Fan and I blamed that on him). No more blame.
And John Stirratt was rockin. I wore lipstick for him, but he didn't see it from the stage. I'll have to stalk later. Oh yeah- he's talented, too.
Anyway... until the first encore (and there were 2), most of the balcony sat in the pews. Not in the way that showed they weren't into it, but in the way that showed every person was LISTENING. The encore brought the house to their feet and the crowd became part of Wilco; like sang with them as a chorus. beautiful.
As well, they were filming the performance, so we really got the best of Wilco. I will own this footage at some point. Wilco played from every album and made a case for their excellence by proving that in their breadth of style, the depth lies in their consistent creativity and excellence.
My concert mate was new to Wilco and liked them enough before. He's been around the concert bush a few times and called it the best concert he has ever seen in his life. It was definitely the best concert the Ryman has ever seen.
Done.
For now.
wilco at the ryman 03.02.2008
Via Chicago
Blood of the Lamb
Pieholden Suite
California Stars
Company in my Back
You Are My Face
Side with the Seeds
Pot Kettle Black
Shot in the Arm
She's a Jar
Handshake Drugs
Impossible Germany
It's Just That Simple
Pick Up the Change
Too Far Apart
Nothingsevergonnastandinmywayagain
Jesus etc.
Hate It Here
Walken
I'm the Man Who Loves You
--------encore 1--------
Someone Else's Song (Tweedy w/o amplification)
Misunderstood (amazing)
The Thanks I Get
Red Eyed and Blue -> I Got You
Monday
--------encore 2---------
The Late Greats
Blood of the Lamb
Pieholden Suite
California Stars
Company in my Back
You Are My Face
Side with the Seeds
Pot Kettle Black
Shot in the Arm
She's a Jar
Handshake Drugs
Impossible Germany
It's Just That Simple
Pick Up the Change
Too Far Apart
Nothingsevergonnastandinmywayagain
Jesus etc.
Hate It Here
Walken
I'm the Man Who Loves You
--------encore 1--------
Someone Else's Song (Tweedy w/o amplification)
Misunderstood (amazing)
The Thanks I Get
Red Eyed and Blue -> I Got You
Monday
--------encore 2---------
The Late Greats
2.15.2008
happy valentines day
so for valentine's i went out for vodka, video trivia, and fried pickles.
i love my body. my body does not love me right now.
as i was driving home, i tried to wrap my mind around love. this is always a good idea after three drinks. in a review of the people i have loved (like loved with a capital L) i came to two. these two are buffered on two men i have obsessed over.
like an obsession/love/love/obsession appetizer.
literally.
high school obsession.
college love.
adult love.
adult obsession.
it's kind of like a fried pickle. i mean the greasy outer layer is in no way good for me, but it's so damn enticing. i chase it around the plastic basket, suck it off the pickle and ruin my tongue on how
way
too
hot
it is.
inevitably, the freaky batter screws my stomach up and kills my taste for pickles- which really is the part that i love the most. i mean, i love dill pickles. like a jar at a time love.
and, i love these men. but the obsessions before and after are fucking up my gut.
i love my body. my body does not love me right now.
as i was driving home, i tried to wrap my mind around love. this is always a good idea after three drinks. in a review of the people i have loved (like loved with a capital L) i came to two. these two are buffered on two men i have obsessed over.
like an obsession/love/love/obsession appetizer.
literally.
high school obsession.
college love.
adult love.
adult obsession.
it's kind of like a fried pickle. i mean the greasy outer layer is in no way good for me, but it's so damn enticing. i chase it around the plastic basket, suck it off the pickle and ruin my tongue on how
way
too
hot
it is.
inevitably, the freaky batter screws my stomach up and kills my taste for pickles- which really is the part that i love the most. i mean, i love dill pickles. like a jar at a time love.
and, i love these men. but the obsessions before and after are fucking up my gut.
2.12.2008
my last 24 hours
my downstairs neighbor came up at midnight to talk about her faltering relationship.(kind of knew from the noise)
my clutch went out in the middle of 7:45am downtown traffic.
the tow truck guy witnessed to me during the entire car ride to firestone.
my gynocologist called to say i had an abnormal pap smear, and she has to look at my wassa with a microscope.
can i just go back to sleep?
my clutch went out in the middle of 7:45am downtown traffic.
the tow truck guy witnessed to me during the entire car ride to firestone.
my gynocologist called to say i had an abnormal pap smear, and she has to look at my wassa with a microscope.
can i just go back to sleep?
2.06.2008
first line i'm working with
i used to think that my father ruined our lives; later i realized we did that just fine on our own.
2.04.2008
epiphany 2007
it took a little while.
found it sunday morning during mile 2 on porter road, 37206.
in giving up hope, i gain everything.
that's it.
that's what i learned in 2007.
found it sunday morning during mile 2 on porter road, 37206.
in giving up hope, i gain everything.
that's it.
that's what i learned in 2007.
2.01.2008
what a good boy
this first time i heard the term hair shirt, the barenaked ladies were crooning through the speakers of my 1989 diesel suburban. we were in a parking lot in west nashville near our favorite restaurant, stir fry cafe (AKA spicy noods). we worshipped spicy noods and the ensuing gastrointestinal discord.
anyway, a hair shirt was originally a garment or undergarment made of coarse cloth or animal hair (a hair shirt). the word has come to mean an object that can be worn to induce some degree of discomfort or pain.
last night, hair shirt became revised...
email to a friend:
my date last night had his $238 shirt unbuttoned to mid-chest. what am i going to do?
her response:
what? I got your text about the debate (I was at an event). Who is the guy and why can he not dress? Is it the hoodie guy?
Because a big fat I told you so may be coming your way.
email to a friend:
hoodie guy. super virago type. too designer jeans, a scarf, and a pearl buttoned patterned cowboyish shirt with embroidery. and 7 stark chest hairs peeking from the unbuttoned abyss.
her response:
I am speechless. Actually, I am in disbelief that 1) this species is still in existence and 2) wandered out of his habitat to 37206
men are my hair shirts.
i know before i put them on, it's gonna be itchy and uncomfortable.
anyway, a hair shirt was originally a garment or undergarment made of coarse cloth or animal hair (a hair shirt). the word has come to mean an object that can be worn to induce some degree of discomfort or pain.
last night, hair shirt became revised...
email to a friend:
my date last night had his $238 shirt unbuttoned to mid-chest. what am i going to do?
her response:
what? I got your text about the debate (I was at an event). Who is the guy and why can he not dress? Is it the hoodie guy?
Because a big fat I told you so may be coming your way.
email to a friend:
hoodie guy. super virago type. too designer jeans, a scarf, and a pearl buttoned patterned cowboyish shirt with embroidery. and 7 stark chest hairs peeking from the unbuttoned abyss.
her response:
I am speechless. Actually, I am in disbelief that 1) this species is still in existence and 2) wandered out of his habitat to 37206
men are my hair shirts.
i know before i put them on, it's gonna be itchy and uncomfortable.
1.30.2008
irony to the third power
how can the son of an english teacher/school board commissioner not be able to spell, at all?
why do the things that make the least sense, feel most right?
(and the chuck taylor of that)
why is it the guy who is perfect for a friend chasing me around the mulberry bush? i hope that i can get his bird circling her bush before he tries to pick a berry from mine. it's gonna be sooooo awkward.
why do the things that make the least sense, feel most right?
(and the chuck taylor of that)
why is it the guy who is perfect for a friend chasing me around the mulberry bush? i hope that i can get his bird circling her bush before he tries to pick a berry from mine. it's gonna be sooooo awkward.
1.27.2008
want to
so the guy who bought our bottle of wine at the bar last night has the song "want to" by sugarland, on his MYSPACE page.
get ready to be entertained.
get ready to be entertained.
1.25.2008
yin and yang
i have come to a clear handle on this concept in one respect:
attachment is the expansive to the contractive uncreative.
detachment is the contractive to the expansive creative.
i like being attached.
i like being creative.
i have never brought the two together.
ho hum. what comes to us is not to be understood, but merely accepted.
not that my g.i. tract is paying any attention to my belief system.
my body is a stupid little vehicle. in its pheromonic and recently discordant symphony, it has neglected to note the harmony in my brain.
attachment is the expansive to the contractive uncreative.
detachment is the contractive to the expansive creative.
i like being attached.
i like being creative.
i have never brought the two together.
ho hum. what comes to us is not to be understood, but merely accepted.
not that my g.i. tract is paying any attention to my belief system.
my body is a stupid little vehicle. in its pheromonic and recently discordant symphony, it has neglected to note the harmony in my brain.
1.23.2008
virginia woolf
she had been promised a soft pretzel when she was 8. he had made the promise of refined grain and rock salt in an attempt to shut her up on the way to the smithsonian. this ran her mind as she lit the cigarette in the parking lot of the drug store.
as she drove down the pike, she thought of that lie and the others she had been told. barbie trucks, mocking birds, nicotine. all of these promises worked in her like the buckwheat that was not digesting from dinner.
she promised her stomach that the feeling would go away, that all things came and went. and in the doubling over, in the roll of her gut, she saw the pretzel. it was twisted like the promises that she had made to herself: the lies that are the most truth within us.
as she drove down the pike, she thought of that lie and the others she had been told. barbie trucks, mocking birds, nicotine. all of these promises worked in her like the buckwheat that was not digesting from dinner.
she promised her stomach that the feeling would go away, that all things came and went. and in the doubling over, in the roll of her gut, she saw the pretzel. it was twisted like the promises that she had made to herself: the lies that are the most truth within us.
1.22.2008
see me, feel me, blah blah blah
on the drive into work this morning, i noticed that the row of shops in my neighborhood was recently repainted... vibrant punches of color in the mids of my urban hood. and, there are white lights on the trees that stand on the riverfront when i pass into downtown. they were beautiful and probably there since thanksgiving. and the street lights go off right after 7am. who knew?
wonder what the hell else i haven't been seeing lately... besides the mice that have taken over my kitchen.
wonder what the hell else i haven't been seeing lately... besides the mice that have taken over my kitchen.
1.21.2008
animal fat
breathing is salvation. the idea that no matter what, involuntarily air moves through me regardless of any burden, thought, or drop in the stomach.
i just moves.
through.
in and out.
it's nice in a way.
the only time it causes me anxiety is when i'm in yoga and realize how aware of it i can become in a moment and how easily i forget it when i leave a certain space.
like most things in life.
how our understanding of something is ever present, but not oft noticed.
tonight i noticed.
and what my breath brought was animal fat and the belief that as long as i love what i can, say what i feel, and appreciate my moments.
nothing.
else.
matters.
i just moves.
through.
in and out.
it's nice in a way.
the only time it causes me anxiety is when i'm in yoga and realize how aware of it i can become in a moment and how easily i forget it when i leave a certain space.
like most things in life.
how our understanding of something is ever present, but not oft noticed.
tonight i noticed.
and what my breath brought was animal fat and the belief that as long as i love what i can, say what i feel, and appreciate my moments.
nothing.
else.
matters.
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